


retracing nostalgia

by antagonists



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:42:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“D’you think,” Lúcio mumbles, half-asleep, “that we could grab a couple choco-bananas on the way back?”</p><p>“You are very fond of that snack.”</p><p>Lúcio hums and rolls closer, cheek smushed against the fox plush. He pokes at the fish swimming lazily within its soft plastic confines, pursing his lips to make a funny face. “Enjoying good food ain’t a crime. Can’t believe I never thought of it before, honestly.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	retracing nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nyacinthus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyacinthus/gifts).



> [(art-fic trade with noé look at this amazing)](http://irlnoe.tumblr.com/post/147709011308)  
> special thanks to [punkhazard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard) for poisoning me
> 
> im die

*

 

 

Over summer noise, between paper walls and tile, two shadows grow long in the afternoon sun. Several streets over, large paper lanterns sway in the humid breeze, unlit for now, but still seeming to glow in the reddening light. Genji idly picks at the sleeve of his yukata, dyed nearly black. He cannot feel the fabric around his waist as he’d once used to, but the sensation still lays nostalgia over his shoulders.

 

“I totally got this.” Lúcio eyes the cotton in his hands apprehensively before shuffling to change, “I’ve read the instructions somewhere before I think. Can’t be too hard, right?”

 

Bemused, Genji turns around silently. He holds one open palm over his shoulder, chiding. “Don’t forget the obi, Lúcio.”

 

“Right.”

 

A few moments of awkward shuffling pass, during which Genji hears Lúcio muttering something he can’t understand. He assumes it’s about the obi; many foreigners he knows have always complained at how complex the knot can be. He can relate somewhat, but after he’d forced himself in childhood to learn so Hanzo wouldn’t have to tie his all the time, he’d found the process very second nature, even without the complete dexterity of human hands.

 

“I think,” Lúcio says haltingly, “I’m finished?”

 

For a moment, Genji eyes the mess that Lúcio’s made of the obi, and also how he’s layered the garb over his body. He lets out a fond sigh, moving closer to adjust the mistakes as he laughs quietly. “Lúcio, are you sure you’ve remembered the instructions properly?”

 

“Why does putting clothes on gotta be so complicated?” Lúcio’s voice verges on a whine, but he stretches his arms to the side to allow for adjustments. His eyes are curious as he watches Genji fiddle with the yukata. Blue looks oddly good between his fingers, like the young night sky and moonlight. “And why’re you switching the sides?”

 

“Ceremonially,” Genji explains, as neutral as possible, “only the deceased are dressed in white kimono, right over left. It is to signify their separation from the living world.”

 

“Aw, _shit_.”

 

“It is quite a common mistake—I do not blame you for it.”

 

“Still,” Lúcio insists. “I, uh. Maybe you could teach me how to tie the belt-thing? I gotta at least get _that_ right.”

 

Slowly, with his hands over Lúcio’s, Genji leans in and guides the obi into place, murmuring the proper steps. Lúcio continues to fumble from the close proximity; his pulse visibly races, and Genji is half-tempted to close the small distance between them to tease.

 

“We have a festival to see,” he says instead, pulling back to eye his handiwork. Against Lúcio’s dark skin, the yukata is a glittering ocean against rich sands.

 

On the way to the festival, they stop by a purikara booth. While Genji had frequented these places regularly in his younger days (he’d kept a keychain with a clip of Hanzo in a princess tiara for _years_ until it was discovered), Lúcio simply stares at the machine in a mix of confusion and terror.

 

“Does that thing take pictures? When does it take a picture?” he asks as the shutter clicks, and turns to the camera in innocent shock as Genji laughs. He has terrible timing, as whenever the pictures are taken, his expressions are never quite ready, or are just slightly off. Only the last one turns out decent, with Lúcio mid-laugh and Genji’s stoic face on the other side.

 

“A new experience under your belt.”

 

Wickedly, Genji grins as the pictures load onto the editing screen.

 

“You did that on _purpose_ ,” Lúcio seethes, and upon realizing that they can decorate the pictures before they are printed, proceeds to paste all manners of flowers and glitter onto Genji’s half of the pictures. He thoroughly abuses the cat ear headband sticker he finds on the fifth page of stamps. In Lúcio’s hands, Genji places a tower of teetering frog cartoons.

 

“Kitty,” Lúcio sniffs as the pictures are sent to the printer, and Genji enters some obscure email to have the photos saved to.

 

“That’s alright,” Genji says coolly, asking the attendant for matte coating in idle Japanese. He waves the small sheets in Lúcio’s direction, flashing brief glimpses of his messy hiragana and katakana scrawl. “I wrote ‘ _cute Lú-chan_ ’ over your shirt in neon pink.”

 

 

 

*

 

 

Against Genji’s better judgment, Lúcio convinces him to participate in the many small stalls with plush prizes. Shooting games, dart games, all of the activities that he clearly remembers from his past. They are not bitter memories, but he hasn’t particularly made it a habit of his to dwell on them. In his arms, he carries a rather large fox plush. Its neck is weighed down with cheap plastic magatama, and around its head sits a knock-off kitsune mask. All very familiar.

 

“Normally,” he says, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice, “one engages in the games for prizes towards the end of the festival.”

 

“ _You’re_ the one who won it for me.” Lúcio sounds embarrassed, having realized that they still have hours left to go and entire streets to walk down. “I could carry it, if you want.”

 

“I’ll give it to you once we’ve fulfilled our date,” Genji says mildly.

 

“I—okay,” Lúcio stammers. He brightens when he sees a small group of children huddled around an inflatable tub of sorts. They clutch nets in their hands, determination in their young chatter and clamor. He moves closer while talking around his mouthful of yakitori, seeming to have already forgotten Genji’s half-hearted advice. “You can catch fish here!”

 

Later, when they’ve settled down beneath an oddly-twisted tree and piled dolls and one goldfish between some roots, Lúcio falls back onto the grass and looks up towards the sky. He looks pleasantly sleepy, obi now slightly crimped and crooked. Genji watches the rise and fall of his chest briefly before turning to watch the fireworks in the distance. His visor lays to the side, reflecting moonlight.

 

They are quite far from the main streets of the festival, lanterns casting romantic glow over the river’s rippling currents. When he’d been younger, Genji had always insisted he and his brother sit as close to the fireworks as they could, unmindful of the deafening noise.

 

Now, he finds the natural silence more attractive, since it mutes the harsh crackle of falling ember and light.

 

“D’you think,” Lúcio mumbles, half-asleep, “that we could grab a couple choco-bananas on the way back?”

 

“You are very fond of that snack.”

 

Lúcio hums and rolls closer, cheek smushed against the fox plush. He pokes at the fish swimming lazily within its soft plastic confines, pursing his lips to make a funny face. “Enjoying good food ain’t a crime. Can’t believe I never thought of it before, honestly.”

 

“If the food stands are still open,” Genji replies, “we will get some.”

 

“Great,” Lúcio says over a yawn. “If we ever visit Brazil, ‘m gonna take you to the best beaches.”

 

A soft smile pulls at his lips. “I look forward to it, Lúcio.”

 

 

**

 

 

“I can _not_ be _lieve_ ,” Lúcio gasps in mock horror, “that you’ve never liked spicy food.”

 

At the sight of all the sliced malagueta pepper sprinkled onto Lúcio’s meal, Genji turns his head away. He’s almost comical about it.

 

“Most Japanese have not built a high tolerance to spice,” Genji says, thinking back to the times he’d pranked Hanzo with a bowl of ramen and a bottle of Tabasco. Many tears, much snot, and a food fight later, he’d soon also learned the angry pain of overly-spicy ramen. “Many have a small… affinity for sweets. Street yakisoba almost always comes with a generous coating of mayonnaise.”

 

Understatement, really. The last time Genji had gone for street yakisoba, years and years ago, the noodles had been swimming in golden condiment. Japanese mayonnaise has always been creamier, too. (He’d eaten it, of course. Why waste good food?)

 

He sounds embarrassed about it, which Lúcio finds very cute. Cute to the point of distraction.

 

“Ah, well. I won’t force you. Spicy stuff ain’t for everyone, I know.”

 

The crowded streets are full of energy, lively with a warmth that Lúcio knows is different from Hanamura’s. Here, he is at home, and though Genji sticks out like a sore thumb, he seems to genuinely enjoy wandering around and pointing out occasional street murals. Where Japan had been neat, orderly, Brazil is a blend of vibrant colors and heady aroma. Lúcio often catches himself swaying to some vague music in the distance, bumping his shoulder against Genji’s arm as they navigate the passages.

 

Genji also _sulks_ , Lúcio realizes, at the fact that he’s weak against spicy food. The memory is soon forgotten when they step onto the shores of Natal, though, with the sunset superimposed over waves and flame-like clouds. Beneath their feet, the sands glitter with color, and though Lúcio can’t really feel the texture of sand with his prosthetics, he finds that thought insignificant as he and Genji trace the ebbing waves side by side.

 

“It is very beautiful here,” Genji says, voice soft with awe. Visor in one hand, he gazes out at the horizon with soft eyes. Lúcio stares, memorizing the rough details of scars, weathered skin pale in the ruddy sunlight. He doesn’t flinch when Genji looks at him, mildly self-conscious.

 

“Don’t have beaches like this in Japan?” he asks, stepping closer.

 

“Mountains, spring flowers and autumn foliage, meadows, rivers and lakes I’ve seen—all gorgeous,” Genji murmurs. “But it is my first time walking along sands this fine, oceans this vast.”

 

Lúcio hums, content.

 

“The beach reminds me of you.” Without warning, Genji taps a gentle finger over Lúcio’s forehead, once, twice.

 

“Oh?”

 

In the dimming light, Genji looks remarkably at peace. In his eyes, the sunlight shatters into a myriad of deep vermillion shards. “A calm haven where I feel alive, and a sight I could never grow tired of.”

 

“You’re being cheesy,” Lúcio deflects, but is unable to stop his taken smile.

 

 

*

 

 

Come morning, Lúcio pulls himself out of his sleepy stupor. The motel room is still dark, dawn hidden behind the curtains, but the sound of running water from the bathroom is deafening in the morning silence.

  
“Genji?” he calls, still mostly groggy. He slowly walks towards the light, squinting, and frowns when he hears rushed scrabbling and the hiss of Genji’s visor sealing shut.

 

“Lúcio,” Genji replies, voice a thin veneer of calm. He sounds somewhat bothered, and Lúcio has no idea why he’d be using running water other than to rinse himself. There’s no towel in sight, though, and Genji looks relatively dry. Droplets of water slide down parts of his visor. “I apologize, did I wake you?”

 

“Nah, you’re good. Something wrong?”

 

“Nothing in particular,” Genji says, but he’s using that nonchalant tone that usually means _I’m-hiding-something-from-you_ , so Lúcio frowns.

 

Standing his ground, Lúcio crosses his arms. He must look a sight with his messy hair and sleep-smudged eyes. “Fess up.”

 

Genji looks as though he’s about to argue, but he instead sighs, reaching back to pull his visor away. For a few seconds, Lúcio can’t honestly see what the issue is, but then he notices the bright red skin over Genji’s nose, just reaching his cheekbones. He feels his mouth open, and he stares some more.

 

“I got sunburned,” Genji admits sheepishly.

 

“Oh, _you_ ,” Lúcio laughs, steps closer on his toes to press a soft kiss to Genji’s reddened nose, “are so _cute_.”

 

“I will wear sunscreen next time,” Genji insists. Lúcio would rather him not, but he indulges Genji and purchases SPF70 anyways.

 

 

*


End file.
